There is a black thing sitting on my head.
Imagination is a terrible thing to lose.
The world becomes an amalgamation
of nothingness and chaos.
You can’t even talk about it,
just a few haphazard phrases.
There is pressure. The kind you feel
when anonymous fears press their many-fingered palms
against your face.
I had a dream last night.
At some point, someone put a fist in my mouth,
and from beyond the windowed wall
a golden sunset nodded assent.
My bones quivered and I knew
I had to save the orphans waiting in the sand
across the shark-packed black water.
But when I woke up,
it was just me, alone in my bed,
under clean white sheets
with a textbook in my hand
and the radiator buzzing.